


girl from north country

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breeding, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25089514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: "Are you trying to seduce me?""Depends. Is it working?"In which Joel is rescued by a “doctor,” who happens to be very, very convincing.
Relationships: Joel (The Last of Us)/Reader
Comments: 76
Kudos: 359





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> takes place right as ellie meets david in the winterlands in TLOU, first game. no character death here so you can breathe easy :)

“We have a doctor at our camp.”

Ellie pauses, arrowhead still pointed at the space between James’ eyes.

“A doctor’s no good without any medicine. Or materials,” says Ellie, coolly. “I need antibiotics. And morphine.”

David nods at his counterpart, “James, go.”

“The others won’t be happy about it.”

“I’ll deal with them later. Just go.”

Ellie waits until James is out of sight before shifting her arrowhead towards David, who looks completely unflappable.

*

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss, as James guides you through the snow.

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut your mouth and be a good dog.”

It isn’t until you reach the refuge that you realize the culprit James has been talking about is a _girl_. She can’t be more than thirteen from the looks of it. “Seriously,” you snort, coming to a full stop behind him as you size up David and his pathetic excuse for a beard. “You guys got roughed up by a little girl?”

James whacks you over the head with his fist, sending you keeling to your knees, “Show some fuckin’ respect—you and that damned mouth.”

“James,” David hisses. “Watch those fists unless you want them gone in the morning.”

Ellie’s eyes dart over James’ shoulder at you. She notices your wrists are tied up with rope. You look a little roughed up too, oddly despondent now that you’ve been hit, eyes glued to the frost beneath your boots.

“I want her to come with me,” she says, motioning the end of her arrow towards you.

David smiles, but it’s wry—and unnerving. Something about it doesn’t quite sit right. “All this for a cut of elk?” He says, and one has to wonder when that pretense is going to shatter into something else.

Ellie doesn’t bat a lash, “Do you want it or not?”

He nods at James, who unties the rope around your wrists before kicking you forward into the ground with the bottom of his boot. “Doesn’t change anything anyway,” he mutters, and you shoot him a glare over your shoulder. Only then do you realize you’re bleeding out the mouth.

*

“Fucking men,” you murmur.

Wrists bound, you waddle along in the snow, tethered to the back of Ellie’s horse. “Hey— _hey!_ How far are we going?” But she ignores you, gaze fixed on whatever’s ahead. You frown, knowing she has every right in the world to be wary of you, and you’re pretty sure the guys you ended up with does nothing to help your situation.

So you bite back whatever pride you have left, lower your gaze and ask, “How bad is it?”

Apparently, it’s the right thing to ask because Ellie doesn’t hesitate to answer. “A hole in his lower abdomen,” she says, like she’s reciting her grocery list.

You blink, “A _hole_?”

“You didn’t hear me the first time?”

Point taken. You pause, mulling it over, wondering how much help you can offer. Even with a first aid kit, a _literal hole_ in the stomach is probably enough to kill any healthy man. Depending on how big it is, you could probably sew up the wound with a needle and thread. And if there’s no rubbing alcohol around, you could make due with some liquor—if that hasn’t been snatched up already. Given Ellie’s age, you’d take your chances that that option’s still on the table somewhere.

“Are you going to kill me after I help him?”

She doesn’t answer, but from your vantage point, you can see her nod. It’s curt. Short.

“Don’t blame you,” you say. “I would too.”

Another pause, as you trudge over a particularly stubborn pile of snow. “Can I at least know the name of the girl who’s gonna kill me?”

Silence. You wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing.

“Ellie,” she says.

“Ellie,” you repeat, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

*

She has her arrow locked to your head as you head down the stairs. Only when you reach the bottom step does she undo the ropes around your wrists—repositioning her weapon at you while you come to a stop.

You take one look at the body in the center of the room and feel your breath hitch.

“Can you help him?”

He looks broken beyond repair, but you know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving.

You have to assess the damage.

“I’m going to have to take a look at him first,” you say, slowly.

She pauses, nodding towards his body, granting you permission as you kneel down beside him to peel back the blanket, followed by his coat, and finally his t-shirt.

“Shit, you weren’t joking,” you say, studying the wound. A literal hole. Clean cut through his lower stomach. Some of it is stitched together. It’s _sloppy_. “What the hell happened—”

“Can you help him or not?”

You nod, feeling very wary of that arrow. One wrong move and it might just slice through your head. Death might be the least of your problems, though. You’re not sure what you’d look like if you ended up alive at the receiving end. “The good news is that he’s healing. The wound isn’t fatal and he didn’t puncture any major organs,” you explain. “I can help, but I’m going to need some supplies though.”

Ellie motions to the table next to you, where there’s an old hotel sewing kit. “OK, that’ll work,” you say, feeling a rush of relief come to your chest. “Do you have any rubbing alcohol—”

“No.”

“Liquor works too—”

“Just do it,” she snaps.

Slowly, you reach for the sewing kit on the table next to his bed. Hands shaking because you’re freezing cold here. “You have the antibiotics and morphine?” You ask, and apparently, she’s already way ahead of the game because they’re already procured from her backpack, on the floor. She kicks them to you—and you just barely catch the vials in time.

You help inject the substances in his body, but he’s totally frozen over. His breaths are shallow, his heart rate’s all off. “I’m going to sew up what’s left of the hole, OK? That’s the most I can do for now.” You tell her, studying the wound festering on his stomach. “He might wake up—so be prepared.”

You glance over your shoulder at her and she nods.

“OK.” You smile, weakly, finally feeling like you’re getting somewhere with her. “Let’s do this.”

*

It’s a slow and arduous process. So much of his wound is scabbed over that you have to use water to loosen up the dried blood—so that you’re not accidentally sewing him to his own scabs.

Ellie’s still holding her arrow to your head, watching your every move with the eyes of a hawk.

“How’d you end up with David?”

It’s hard to focus when your life is on the line—but talking somehow levels out whatever apprehensions you have. Because you always talked when suturing back in the old days. Granted, you’re under different circumstances now. “I didn’t _end up_ with him. Those…fuckers,” you seethe. “Him and James…two days ago…they…fucking… _fuck_.”

You trail off.

Ellie immediately perks up, moving closer to look at Joel, “What is it? What’d you do—”

“Nothing. He’s fine.” You drop your head, fingers deft and quick to do the next stitch. “Just haven’t made peace with the fact that I’m here.”

For some reason, she sighs. You get the feeling that she knows exactly what you mean.

It’s silent again, as you knot up the end of your sewing line, cutting it with your teeth. Ellie’s arrow is still pointed, but it’s with almost no resolve as you put away the sewing kit and cap the bottle of water that’s still sitting empty before you. “I don’t want you to kill me,” you tell her, looking up to meet her gaze. “You shouldn’t have that kind of blood on your hands. If it comes down to it, I’ll take my own life.”

“You think I’m stupid enough to offer you a weapon?” She snaps.

“I don’t need one,” you tell her, shrugging. “Just give me a rope.” And then you pause, taking a breath. “I’m not keen on you watching me die, but I get the feeling you won’t let me off that easy.”

She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t offer you any snarky response either.

There’s bustling outside—the sounds of men yelling in the distance. You recognize those voices.

“Shit. They must’ve tracked us,” you mutter, standing up.

“Don’t move,” Ellie hisses, her arrow pointed at you. “Don’t fuckin’ move. Sit back down. _Sit!”_

You obey, raising your hands in the air. “Let me talk to them—”

“Like hell I will,” she says. “You’re just going to run off—”

“Ellie, listen to me.” You lower your hands, trying to meet her gaze. “Those men are dangerous. They’re not—hey, Ellie!”

“I have to go,” she says, and instinctively you already know she’s going to try and lead them off the path. Away from here. Away from the man. “Stay here. If he’s dead by the time I’m back, I’ll kill you.” But it’s an empty threat—because if he’s dead by the time she’s back, it probably means she’ll be dead too. “And don’t bother running away. You won’t get a mile out before you die from the cold.”

She’s right.

“Ellie,” you say her name one last time, but you can see it in her eye that she’s already made up her mind. And when that realization dawns, your eyes soften. “Be careful.”

She sprints up the stairs before you can tell her your name.

*

For what feels like hours, you sit there. Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Until.

He sucks in a breath.

“Ellie?”

Instinctively, you jerk away, but as soon as he catches sight of you, he has you in a chokehold and suddenly you feel the cold blade of a knife pressed against your neck. “Where the hell is she?” He hisses, and you try to sputter something, only for it to come out all garbled and incoherent. “Who the hell are you?”

“The doctor that saved your life,” you hiss. “She tried to draw away David’s men,” you explain. “They tracked her here.”

He drops you and you suck in a breath, hacking for air.

“David? Who the hell is that?”

“The leader of a settlement in the north,” you tell him, blinking away tears. “I don’t know where it is exactly—but—"

But before you get the chance to say more, he starts packing his things. “You’re wounded,” you tell him. “You need _rest_.”

He grabs the spare rope in the corner you were saving for your sucide, ties you up, and leaves you sitting on the mattress where he’d been lying. “Stay put,” he says, and it sounds like he’s commanding a dog—which can’t be too far from the truth.

“Let me go with you,” you hiss.

“You’d only slow me down,” he says, and before you get a chance to protest he slams the door on the way out of the basement. Like father, like daughter—you think, sullenly, leaning back into the mattress, wondering if the cold will kill you before the starvation.

You don’t get a chance to think it through before you promptly fall asleep.

*

“What do we do with her?”

“We leave her.”

“What? Fuck no. She _helped_ us.”

Your eyes open slowly to find Ellie and Joel studying you like you’re a winter rabbit roasting over an open fire. “Hey—”

“It’s another mouth to feed,” says Joel, frowning.

“She’s a doctor. She could be useful.”

“We’ve been fine so far.”

“No we haven’t, Joel. You almost died.”

“Hey!” Apparently, that’s all it takes because the both of them look at you, quiet. “How about we just pretend this never happened? You don’t know me, I don’t know you—we go about our lives pretending we never met each other.”

They pause. Shit, yeah, you think you’re finally getting somewhere with them, but apparently Joel has other plans.

“Fine. She’s coming with us.”

*

As the weather warms up, Ellie starts warming up too. Granted, your hands are still in fucking ropes, you try to roll with the punches. They’re going to take you to the Fireflies, where you can provide “some use,” as Joel put it so eloquently. They still haven’t told you why they’re heading west, but at this point you don’t really care.

Besides, Joel’s managed to steal some poor codger’s car, which means you at least get the comfort of a front seat.

“Your name is Eleanor Wheeler—”

Ellie wrinkles her nose, “ _Wheeler_? Do I really look like a Wheeler?”

It’s odd to think this is the same girl who held an arrow to your head, ready to kill only days ago.

“You really do,” you say. “OK, so your name is Eleanor Wheeler. You live in a log cabin somewhere in the backwoods of Connecticut like a writer from the 1800s. In your free time, you play bass in a rock band called Fatality. The only thing you love more than your guitar is your golden retriever named…Lance.”

“Ew, Lance?” She wrinkles her nose, recoiling against the window of the backseat. “What about Scab?”

“Ellie, the point of the game is that someone else tells your story,” you sigh, glancing at Joel to see his gaze fixed on the road. He hasn’t said a word in hours. “Scab, though, really? Some name for a dog.”

“OK, my turn now,” says Ellie, inching to the edge of her seat. “OK, your name is Faith—Faith Heavensword.”

You arch a brow, “Damn, I sound badass.”

The corners of Ellie’s lips tip up to form a faint smile, one that you’re probably seeing for the first time. It’s enough to remind you that she’s still a kid. “You live in a cottage by the sea…” Her eyes light up. “In England.”

“Queen n’ country, m’lady,” you say, but the accent’s a bit wonky.

“You collect old dolls for fun. The really creepy ones. And when you go to sleep, you count to make sure all their heads are in place before you turn off the lights.”

“If only to make sure one of them doesn’t kill me at night,” you say, turning to Joel. “Your turn.”

He grunts, “No thanks.”

“Ugh. You’re so boring,” you sigh, turning back to Ellie. “OK, your name is Elena Stucker and you’re a veterinarian in a zoo…”

*

Ellie’s fast asleep.

“You shouldn’t give her false hope,” says Joel, rubbing his chin as he stares at the road. “Playin’ those games—it’s not good for her.”

You roll your eyes, hugging your knees to your chest underneath the ropes, “I grew up with three younger brothers. Those _games_ kept them sane.”

“Yeah? And where are your brothers now?”

It hurts. You instinctively wilt at the accusation, but you’re not really taking offense to it either. “Dead,” you say, and you don’t elaborate.

He notices, glancing at you, “Sorry. I’m just—tired. Been drivin’ a long time.”

“Then let me drive,” you say.

He pauses, glancing at the ropes around your wrists.

He does.

*

It goes like that, into the night, as the car continues humming across the highway overgrowth to a suspended fog of nowhereland. He’s cut your rope because you’ve been a good, obedient dog, but you know he can end your life whenever he wants—whenever he feels like it.

“This was the only tape I could recover from my parents’ garage,” you say, fishing out something from your backpack. “The only thing David and James didn’t take from me in the cell. You slide it into the terminal, waiting. “All 70s stuff—all happy, all the time.”

And just like that, _Love Train_ by The O’Jays begins to play.

Joel leans against his clenched fist, staring out the window. Tired, but not quite ready to let go and unwind yet. “Any Temptations?” He asks.

“Oh, you know it,” you grin, fast-forwarding to the next song.

 _Get Ready_. The base begins to play, followed by the drum. ‘ _I never met a girl that made me feel the way that you do—you’re alright_.’

“Love a man who can sing only in falsetto,” you say.

“Really?”

“No,” you laugh. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

“Being?”

“Silence.”

He chuckles—throaty and low. You notice his laughs come short, never more than half a breath. It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh, and the sound of it is rather nice. “That sounds about right,” he says—and it’s true. You never quite learned how to shut up.

“Speaking of music... I lost my virginity to Queen. Very romantic, I know,” you go on. “What about you?”

Joel scoffs.

”What?”

He gives you a look, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

He frowns, looking very indifferent. Apparently not so.

Oh well, you haven’t been rejected outright so you figure you can latch onto some semblance of hope. For a while, you ruminate on it in the silence, watching the headlights beam across the road as the truck moves through the darkness.

“I grew up in the city,” you start, sounding very wistful. “Wanted to be an astronaut. Parents were both ER doctors, so they taught me the tools of the trade after it happened. Said they won’t kill someone who’s useful. Never got a formal education, but so far the label’s kept me alive, even if it is a lie.” You watch the trees go by in the window. So dark and ominous they look like gangly fingers. “What about you?”

He doesn’t answer, still thinking about what you said earlier.

“Oh, so I bare my soul to you and I get nothing in return?”

He snorts, “I hardly call that baring your soul.”

“So what would you call it?”

“Irrelevant.”

“You’re no fun,” you say, studying his face.

“No. I’m not.”

You frown, “But I bet you were—once upon a time.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “’Cause I wasn’t fun back then either.”

You pause, looking away into the distance where there’s a grove of trees blocking half the lane, “I don’t believe you.”

*

Three days of driving later, you set up camp at an abandoned house on a hill on the eastern outskirts of the city. It’s all open plains, old farmland overrun with thicket and weeds, and a lake down the bend a half mile out. Not a single soul in sight for miles on end.

You start parsing through the old clothes left behind in the closets, wondering what you’d look like in them.

“You think I would’ve made a good doctor?” says Ellie, pulling out a particularly giant bra. “Jeez, look at the size of these things. I could fit my hole head in one of these.”

“I bet you would’ve,” you tell her. “You have all the makings of a good one. Your stitching’s no joke too. You’re practically a natural.”

She flops on the floor, searching through the open cabinets, “What kind of doctor do you think I would’ve been?”

“Oh, definitely a surgeon.”

“And why’s that?”

“’Cause you’re bossy,” you snort, and she tosses a pillow at your head that you just barely manage to dodge. “’Cause you’re _the boss_.”

“Ooh, this is cute,” Ellie procures a single mini-skirt form the depths of the closet. “This looks like something your speed.”

She tosses it to you, and you catch it, shaking your head. “Alright, very funny,” you say, ushering her out the bedroom. “Now let’s go wash up.” But as soon as she leaves the room, you stuff the miniskirt underneath your shirt and take one last look at the room before bouncing out right after her.

*

You put on your skirt and make your way to the car, where Joel’s listening to music inside.

”She’s asleep,” you say, hopping on the seat next to him. “Out like a light.”

He gives you a look.

”What?” You say. “I can’t join you?”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says. “You’re a kid.”

“I’m 28. Don’t infantilize me. It’s annoying.”

He snorts, “Even if you were my age, you’re not my type anyway.”

“You don’t think we would’ve dated in high school?”

Joel snorts, “We wouldn’t have gone to high school together.”

“C’mon. Humor me a little,” you say, punching him in the arm with no resolve at all. “Would you have asked me out?”

“Nah.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

You pause, thinking, while the Temptations keep playing on in the background.

“Wanna know what I think?” You say.

“Not really, but when has that ever stopped you?”

“I think you’re a good guy—a good man. But I think your desperation to survive has convinced you otherwise. I think something happened along the way—some test that you probably failed to yourself. And I think you stopped giving yourself chances for redemption because of that.”

It was probably the atmosphere, or the nonstop sexual tension since he’d met you. Maybe it was the fact that someone actually wanted him beyond his utility and use. Or maybe it was because someone finally bothered getting to know him beyond the grime and wear of this new universe they were now embedded in.

But Joel decides in that moment maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all—maybe, he thought, he deserved a little bit of respite—and a little bit of hope—in this otherwise ugly, ugly world.

So grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss as hard as he can.

And there’s nothing romantic about it—just pure desperation and longing to _fill_ something that’s been empty for so long. He kisses you like he’s prepared to devour you -- there’s no dance, no lightness, no flow -- and you find yourself on the receiving end feeling just as needy and just as indulgent.

When his hand winds into your hair, you crane your neck back and let him smatter you with a boat of kisses down your throat. Wet and warm, like he’s leaving a trail to exactly where he needs to be. “Don’t leave marks,” you murmur, and for whatever reason, it compels him to do the exact opposite. He starts sucking, which makes you jerk away. “Fucking asshole—” Only for him to dig his hand into his your lower back, keeping you on his lap.

Whatever apprehensions you had about the marks are immediately swept away when he starts unbuttoning his flannel and revealing his chest, toned and thick in a way that’s proof of his mettle and strength, less so on the cut and aesthetics. He immediately starts working on your shirt, one button at a time, which gives you time to study his skin—marred with all sorts of cuts and bruises.

He gets to the end of your shirt, helping you tug it over your shoulders as he takes in the sight of you: round, full breasts, untouched by any wears and tears whatsoever. Tess had a lot of scars, but it seems like your line of work offered some reprieve. And the contrast is stark. You’re taking notes in your head, but he notices you’ve completely stopped moving. “Hey—what’s wrong?” He says, but nothing about his voice is urgent or pushy. He looks concerned because _you_ look concerned.

“Jesus, Joel,” you murmur, studying the cut on his shoulder—a stab wound. You’d only ever seen the hole in his lower stomach. For some reason, you just never thought he’d have entire network of scars like a patchwork quilt that was left hidden away. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder—where there’s no scar. “They don’t hurt anymore.”

But you run your fingers across the pink patches of skin, wondering just how many times he’d probably told himself the same thing. You’re only getting a peek of what he looks like, and one has to wonder just many other scars are hidden away.

He winds his hand into your hair, pulling you into another kiss, but it’s slow this time. Caressing. Everything about it is _tangible_. You taste like freshwater and summer, like a part of the past that he’s never met but wants to know. You’re kissing him back, arching against his chest and feeling your hips grind into his while his hands start roaming your chest. Palming one, only to feel your nipple harden underneath his touch.

You moan into the kiss, eyelashes brushing against his face as you press your forehead against his, a line of saliva where your lips are connected. His hands seize your throat, gently, and you can feel his cock straining against his pants. He’s not sure who’s at who’s mercy, but he’s not going to pass up this moment.

He kisses you again, this time rough, and his cock twitches when you whine into his ear. Your hands are instinctively reaching for the belt of his pants, undoing them clumsily while he continues kissing you, kneading your breasts, reaching underneath your skirt to feel you’re already soaking wet. You edge backwards to offer him better access to move your underwear, but you bump into the horn—making it blare.

_Beep!_

It’s so short you think you must’ve imagined it. He grabs you immediately by the small of your waist, and both of you pause, immediately on guard. Waiting for something that never comes. And when you realize everything is fine—a rare respite considering the mistake you’ve made—you bury your face into his shoulder and laugh. “I’m so sorry,” you say, softly. You can feel his erection start to soften underneath your weight. “I just—I haven’t had sex in a car since high school.”

He strokes your back. It’s oddly comforting, even as his fingers reach under your skirt for your underwear again, “That so?”

You pull back, take a look at his face, hand brushing against his cheek, “Yeah.”

And then you close the distance to kiss him again, feeling him pry aside your underwear to slip a single finger inside you. His fingers are already wet, dripping—and when he feels how tightly you squeeze against him, his erection immediately springs back to life. He already knows this is going to feel so good.

“Want you to cum for me,” he mutters into your ear. “Can you do that?”

You bite your lower lip, eyes completely blown with lust as you nod. Eagerly. Almost too eagerly. As his thumb brushes against the peak between your folds, slowly—torturously. You arch your neck back and moan, _loudly,_ and he immediately stuffs another finger into your mouth.

You hold his gaze, biting down hard only to make him hiss. The pain is oddly pleasurable, and he keeps his finger stuffed into your mouth as you ride out his other hand, squeezing your eyes shut as you search for something you can’t quite find.

He starts getting sloppier, watching you lose yourself in the pleasure.

But then you stop.

He’s completely soaked to the wrist, but you stop, lean over, and whisper, “I want you to feel me cum around you.” A slow, croaking drawl as you pull his finger out of you.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he sighs, sounding like he’s in genuine pain.

You tug out his cock from the restraint of his briefs, feeling it in your hand. It’s big – girthy – and it takes you a moment to snap back to reality. But you lean forward onto your knees, feeling the throbbing ache as you hover over him, lining him up between your legs—

\--and then you sheathe yourself over him slowly, the head of his cock slipping inside you. He cranes his neck back and whispers a soft _fuck_ underneath his breath, and it’s not quite praise but it’s close enough. You feel a swell in your chest, lowering yourself slowly—feeling yourself stretch for him until he’s completely buried inside you.

“You’re tight,” he murmurs, one arm draped around your waist.

You grind your hips into his and he lets out a guttural groan, digging his fingers into your waist so hard it’s probably enough to leave bruises. “ _Fuckin’ hell_ ,” he mutters again, and you grind into him again, making him settle both hands onto your hips for balance.

It starts getting sloppier, as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. Up and down—up and down you go, until the stretch no longer becomes an issue. All you feel is hot, wet, and urgent as you bounce up and down, squeezing for a warm itch that’s beginning to build inside you.

You start whining, gripping onto the seathead for leverage as you continue feeling him bury himself into you. He’s panting -- one hand kneading your breast while the other starts tracing circles against the peak between your folds -- bucking his hips into yours as you arch your neck. Craning as the itch begins to build. “Fuck, Joel—I’m gonna—”

“—go ahead, cum.” Oddly enough, he doesn’t sound smug about it. Just urgent. “Keep up your end of the bargain.”

The air in the car is getting claustrophobic, but it makes you lightheaded in a deliriously pleasurable way. It’s too hot in here, but you’re so amped up on the adrenaline rush that you don’t care. “I always do— _fuck_ ,” you utter—because he doesn’t stop. Whatever control you thought you had is apparently gone because he’s the one thrusting into you from below, filling you in a way you can’t comprehend.

The multitasking’s stopped—his hands are completely wrapped around your waist—but it doesn’t matter because you’re so, _so_ close. “Joel, I—” Everything that comes out your mouth is short and stunted. “So close. Don’t stop. Please.”

Sweat is dripping down his face as he wraps his mouth around your nipple, giving it a suck before biting down on your collarbone, “Well since you said please.”

“Oh fuck, Joel. _Joel_ —” He likes the sound of his name in your mouth. He imagines what it’d be like if it were his cock instead, but that’s something he can figure out another day. No more thinking about the future. He’s complately buried in the present right now. In more ways than one. “ _Joel_!”

Your eyes are completely glazed—you’re looking at him, but your pupils are full blown with something vague and expressionless as you twitch in his grasp. “Fuck,” you whisper, as he continues thrusting into you, feeling every pulse of your orgasm as you squeeze around him.

Shit, that feels good. Better than he remembers. Fair enough, he’s imagined fucking you—but it doesn’t compare to the real thing as you—

And then he completely unravels, spilling himself inside you. You slump over his shoulder, completely overspent, still shaking through the last quivers of your orgasm as he finishes his load in you.

“So. Not since high school, huh.” He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. “How does it compare?”

He’s going soft inside you.

“It’s not a dick-measuring contest,” you tell him, pulling yourself off to clean yourself.

He follows suit, fixing up his briefs and fussing with his belt while you wipe away the excess fluids down your legs. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

“I lied, by the way,” you smile at him. “I don’t drive. I grew up in the city, took the subway. I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“What the fuck—you drove three hours today.”

“Had to learn on the fly. Apocalypse and such,” you say, beaming. And when you see the mortified look on his face, you laugh. “Hey, I got us here without a hitch, right? What did you say about the past before? It’s irrelevant.”

But maybe it’s not.

As he studies your face, he gets it. There’s no way you would’ve found common ground outside this place—this time.

“In another life, I would’ve been working in a hospital. You—a farm—”

“Why do you _always_ assume I’m a farmer?”

You grin, “We’d probably live in two different cities—completely unaware of one another.”

“But I feel like this is exactly where I should be,” you tell him, leaning against his chest. He doesn’t fight you, instead, relaxing into your touch. “I feel like…I’m really happy right now. That I met you. I’m—look. What I’m trying to say…is I’m glad I got stuck with you and Ellie.”

It’s a strange thing to admit aloud. To be happy in spite of the cards you’re dealt. But maybe that’s one of the beauties of human resilience.

“Me too.”

He leans his head against the crook of your neck and closes his eyes. “Just for a little bit,” he says, and you smile and tell him _OK_ , hoping that a little bit never ends.

*

The car rolls around highway, slow and quiet. It’s a low rumble.

The three of you are quiet, watching the clouds roll by.

“So…did something happen?” says Ellie, poking her head between you two.

“Nope, just enjoying the silence,” you say, looking the other way at the trees. The highway is coated with vines and leaves. “Y’know—a little peace and quiet.”

She gives you a skeptical look, “But you’re never quiet.”

Joel laughs, “She’s got you there.”

“You’re not that quiet yourself,” you say, giving him a knowing look. He takes the hint, averting his gaze back to the road.

Ellie slinks back into her seat, gazing indifferently out the window, “You two sure took your sweet time on patrol last night.”

And it’s quiet. Unnervingly so.

“Interpol.”

You blink.

“I lost it to Interpol,” he says, clearing his throat.

Ellie sits up, “Lost what?”

“His shoes,” you say.

“What’s Interpol?”

“The police.”

“You lost your shoes to the police? Now what does _that_ mean?”

“Nothing.” Both of you answer simultaneously.

“This is so unfair,” says Ellie, flopping back into the seat.

Joel offers you a knowing look, putting his hand on your thigh as the car continues rolling along the highway to nowhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pure self indulgent DRAMA + fluff dont @ me

When you arrived in Jackson, the first thing you asked Joel was to teach you how to dance.

And he had done so without question. Without hesitation. The same way you’d followed him to Salt Lake City without question and without hesitation. The same way you'd followed him _right out_ of Salt Lake City without question and without hesitation.

Because you had two choices. You could stay and die. Or you could run and live. You chose the latter.

“I literally just sat down. What the fuck,” you’d said as he dragged you out the backdoor by the scruff of your neck, tossing you into another beat-up pickup truck alongside Ellie, who happened to be draped in a hospital gown. “Ellie? What's wrong with her?"

"We're leaving," he'd said, pulling out his spot.

"Leaving? WE JUST GOT HERE. They told me I needed to talk to Marlene--"

“She’s dead.”

“SHE WAS LITERALLY ALIVE FIVE MINUTES AGO, I JUST SAW HER—what's wrong with Ellie?”

And then he'd paused.

“If you I tell you, then you’ll become complicit too,” he’d said before you even got in a word edgewise. "Do you want that?"

"What does that even fucking mean," you'd muttered, brushing a finger through her hair. And when he'd decided to ignore you, you'd groaned. “Ugh—I can’t even look at your face,” you'd said. “So fucking annoying.”

But for the most part, you’d kept quiet. Mulling it over while taking care of Ellie in the backseat. Taking into consideration what the consequence would be if you did find out whatever secret he's apparently trying to keep under wraps.

“You know this is strike one, right?” You’d told him, sounding oddly despondent and unlike yourself.

(That was your first mistake. The _hesitation_.)

“I know.”

He was hiding something from you. You chose to forgive him before you even knew what it was. But you put it in the past because you thought it would be for the best. You’d been quiet in the car—so quiet in fact that when Ellie woke up she instinctively knew something was wrong. But again, you put it in the past because you trusted Joel—and because you trusted he knew what was best.

So when you got to Jackson, you asked him to teach you how to dance, and he obliged. You’d stepped on his toes, and it wasn’t until then that you finally laughed aloud. It wasn’t until then that you started talking again. You and your big mouth. He was relieved. More relieved than he expected.

*

Now you were dancing with someone else.

Some guy your age—tan skin, man bun, cut chin. Objectively handsome in a very, _very_ attainable way. You’re laughing at some joke he makes. You have a nice laugh--a _familiar_ laugh that's warm and true--and Joel finds himself stealing a glance at you before meeting Tommy at the bar.

“Hey—you made it,” he says. “Saw your girl dancin’ with another guy.”

Joel pauses, resisting the urge to look at you again. He has a feeling you’ll look right back if he stares too long, “She’s not my girl,” he says, but the words crumble in his mouth like ashes on an old cigarette.

“Not anymore anyway,” is Tommy’s reply as he studies you across the room.

You and Pete. Right. You’d just started getting to know him. “Just friends,” is what you’d said, but he’d caught you touching his arm the other night—and he’d caught Pete with his hands resting on your waist too. So it turned out that was all hogwash. You just didn’t want to tell him. For good reason too.

“What was that you said over dinner with Maria ‘n me? _We’re just enjoyin’ each other’s company. Nothin’ to it, so don’t make it somethin' it's not_. Oof, big brother—you had it comin’, you know that?”

A sigh comes, equal parts bitter--equal parts annoyed, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“But it was what you said,” says Tommy, grinning. “Prol’ly the age difference, you ol’ codger.”

“It’s not.” Remarkably, Joel doesn’t sound bitter about it. “She—just—”

“Just what?”

“Nothin’.”

Joel considers it quietly before turning back around, finding you stopped at a table with a cup of gin. Your new _not-boyfriend_ Pete is chatting you up, just short of touching you on the arm, and it takes him zero hesitation to say _fuck it_ and walk right up to your table to interrupt the festivities.

Much to your chagrin, as you look his way and _roll your eyes_.

“Mind if I cut in?”

“I do, actually,” you offer him a smile—a smile utterly bereaved of any kindness or humor.

It’s a threat. It’s telling him to _fuck off._

Still, stubborn is as stubborn does and Joel is stubborn as it gets, “I’m askin’ nicely,” he says, and the look you offer him is utterly mirthless, so filled with contempt and toxicity that he immediately recoils at the sight of it.

“C’mon man, we’re having a good time here,” says Pete. “It can’t wait ‘til later?”

“No, I’m afraid it can’t.”

“Well, I’m afraid it can,” you say, turning away.

You sound so cold and withered he can feel a chill run down his spine. “I was trying to be polite, but I guess that's not working today. So I'll just make this clear. I don’t want to talk to you. And I don’t care what you have to say. So please do me a favor. Just leave me alone.”

He’s about to stop you, but you’re already halfway out the bar. Pete, like the sad little puppy dog he is, follows right after you, calling out your name while Joel is left, woefully, woefully alone.

*

_**Two Weeks Earlier** _

*

You’re fussing in the kitchen with Maria, who’s making a drink for Tommy. Jack and Coke. You have no idea how she's managed to procure either, but wah-la. The woman is a miracle-maker. "How was your visit to Doctor Osteen?" She asks, licking off the excess from her lips before carrying two drinks to the kitchen island.

"It was...fine," you say, hugging yourself.

Maria arches a brow, "Sure doesn't sound fine."

The smile that blooms on your face is weak, totally broken. "Just learned something I was probably better off not knowing, that's all," you say, stretching your arms out while turning towards the hall where you hear Tommy's laugh echo through. "Feeling a little sorry for myself, but I'll get over it."

"That's vague. How bad is it?"

"Oh--nothing like that," you smile at her from behind as you make your way back to the dining room. "I--"

Tommy laughs again, “So—you two…”

“We’re just enjoyin’ each other’s company," comes Joel's voice on the other side of the wall. "Nothin’ to it, so don’t make it somethin' it's not."

Oh.

So it’s like that.

You come to a full stop. Maria does too, and it's only when you start moving again does she follow you, dropping the two drinks on the table. You smile in a loving, chagrined manner as you come around to Joel's chair. They don’t know you’ve heard them, and for now, you’re content with that resolution. But Maria knows--and the look she offers you is so full of pity you think you might just keel over and die.

"Hey, take a seat," he says, pressing a kiss to your hand.

“Actually, I’m kind of beat,” you tell him. “Gonna head back and call it a night.”

You never quite meet his gaze, instead focused on Maria and Tommy, but he stands up almost immediately after you say those words.

“That's fine. Let me walk you—”

“I’m good,” you tell him, smiling. “I’m staying with Ellie tonight.”

He blinks. Oh, you’re _mad_. You don’t need to tell him, but he already knows. Apparently everyone does. Everyone except Tommy. “Oh, c’mon—let him be a gentleman for you,” he says, offering a knowing look with a twinkle in his eye like he knows a secret about you—a secret that you _already_ know.

“OK—sure then,” you concede with zero resolve whatsoever. You head over to Maria, kiss her on the cheek before bidding farewell to Tommy with a hug.

And just like that, you’re heading out the door, ignoring him as he follows you from behind.

“Hey, you have a good time?” asks Joel.

“Yup."

He pauses, wrinkling his brows as he watches you stomp through the main road. You almost _never_ answer in one-word answers. He thinks maybe it’s just an off question. So he moves along, to catch up with you. “You eat enough? You barely touched your dessert,” he goes on, hoping it’ll stick. But apparently it doesn’t because all you offer him is a shrug and mutter something about not being hungry. Which is weird enough when you're being quiet--but you're being quiet about food when you're _never_ quiet about food.

“What’s wrong?”

Apparently that's the right question to ask because you immediately unravel.

“ _We were just enjoyin’ each other’s company_?” Your mimicry of his accent is actually pretty spot on. “That’s it, right? We're just...enjoying each other's damned company. That's all I am to you."

He sighs, “You heard that?”

“Holy shit. We got a real Sherlock Holmes over here,” you hiss, quickening your pace. He breaks into a jog to catch up with you, but you don’t even look his way. “You know what? I was fucking wrong about you. You’re not a good guy. You’re a shitty guy—and yet I still love you, so what does that say about me? I’m a dumbass who’s in love with a shitty guy. Fuck me, right?”

“Calm down,” he says, grabbing you by the arm. “Listen—I misspoke. I wasn’t—“

“Fuck you. I stood by you. I fucking stood by you and you don’t even see a future with me. You—you don’t even _know_ me. You don't know anything about me. You don't know my brothers' names, you don't know what neighborhood I grew up in, and you don't know my favorite color,” you tell him, scoffing. “Come to think of it—you’ve never even told me you love me—"

“Come on. Really? After all we've been through? You don't--you don't think I love you?” He looks annoyed at the accusation, if anything, a little angry. You can hear it in the tremor in his voice, just short of turning into something foul. “Fine, you want me to say it?”

“I want you to say it without me asking,” you state. That look in your face is vacant. He knows _right there_ he’s already lost you. “I shouldn’t have to beg you.”

A moment of silence passes between you as you come to a full stop outside his house. The house you share. Or maybe the house you’re just rooming with him in. Because you're just enjoying each other's company, right?

“You know who I am,” he says. “I’m not changin' any time soon.”

“That's bullshit. People are always capable of change.”

He sighs. You _hate_ how he sighs. Like he's talking to a kid. He treats you like one whenever you get angry, so why wouldn't he treat you like one when he gets angry too? It's kind of humiliating, but it's nothing compared to the disappoint you feel when you realize he probably won't apologize first.

“Let’s just go home. I’ll brew some coffee—and we’ll talk.”

"Fine."

For some reason, you don’t fight him.

For some reason, he already knows he’s lost.

*

He’s right.

Because you don’t talk.

You fuck it out.

And when he fucks you, it’s rough. He fucks you from behind like he’s fucking you for the last time, which probably isn’t too far off the mark. You can feel him ram as hard as he can, filling you so fucking whole every time. Your face is halfway buried into a pillow, elbows digging into the springs of his mattress as he grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him.

Hair tangled in your face, his lips meet yours—but you pull away, burying your face into the pillow again, feeling him slow down.

And then he stops. Pulls out, leaving a line of fluid from the tip of his cock to the slick between your folds. He turns you on your back, and you oblige.

“God, you’re so tight. So fuckin’ sexy,” he mutters, spreading your legs—sinking deep into you again. He reaches for your breasts, but you don’t say much as he leans down to press a kiss to your neck—and a kiss to your heart.

Ever the romantic.

You arch your back, instinctively wrapping your legs around him. You want him to hurry up, and apparently he gets the telepathic message because he thrusts into you, making you moan. Loudly. And when you do, he takes the opportunity to lean in to kiss you on the mouth, but you turn your face, making his lips meet your cheek instead.

“You don’t wanna kiss me?” He murmurs, still thrusting into you, and you stay quiet, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the moment.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and he does—thrusting deeper and deeper, the friction dizzying good until you're crying his name through your orgasm—wave after wave of adrenaline spreading from your core to your fingertips.

He cums right after you, cock pulsing inside you as he grunts to a full stop. When he pulls out, he sees a pearl of cum between your folds, and the sight is _fucking_ good. Had he not just cum inside you, he would probably be fully erect again. He leans over to press a kiss to your cheek, but you turn away as he falls onto your side of the bed. You're already standing on the floor, putting on your clothes.

“I’m staying with Ellie tonight,” you say, clasping your bra first—before following with your boy shorts. Apparently that’s all you have to say to him as you slip on your shirt, your flannel—and before you can get to your jeans, he grabs you by the wrist.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” you say, which is a problem because _you always want to talk about things_.

He sighs, wondering if he should make this easier by dumbing down the questions for you, “Is it about what I said at dinner? ‘Cause I dunno what more you want from me. I’ve already apologized—”

“No. It’s not that.”

He starts racking his brain over whatever conversation you might’ve had in the past month, “Then is it about the baby?”

“ _No_! It’s not about the baby, you moron. It wouldn’t—it wouldn’t make sense to bring one into this fucked up world anyway. And on top of that, I’m fucking barren, so whatever.”

He blinks, “You’re…what?”

You look down, ripping away from his hold, “I checked with Doctor Osteen today. Just to see…I’m barren. She says there’s no way I’m having kids—so it’s not even on the table. And—and—I don’t know why the fuck I’m telling you this. It doesn’t even matter.”

He looks at you—but that look is so full of pity. So filled with sorry, that you instinctively recoil.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” you tell him.

He pauses, “So what do you want?”

And it gives you some time to think.

Which must be a first because you almost always say whatever's on your mind.

Yet there you are, standing half-naked in the middle of the bedroom you share with Joel, thinking. Not an ounce of humor on your face--not even a little smile to know where he stands with you. You're totally rigid, totally cold.

“I want to be with you," you start, slowly, as if to ascertain the truth of your words before they come out. "And I want to marry you. In Vegas or something, ideally with some fat Elvis impersonator ordaining our marriage. But you know what? That's obviously not happening, so I’d settle for two dirt mounds in the sand if it came down to it. And—and, also, I lied. I want to have your fucking babies, but that’s not happening either. Because I can’t fucking carry."

Tears well up hot in your eyes. You try to blink them away but they start spilling down your face in fat globs. Joel immediately gets to his feet to hug you, but you take a step back away from him. "But you know what I want the most?" You say, meeting his gaze. "I wanna fucking watch you grow old—so old you don’t even recognize who I am—and then I wanna watch you die."

You wipe away a tear with your sleeve, buttoning up the rest of your flannel.

"That's what I fucking want."

He takes another step towards you, "Honey--" But you instinctively take a step back away.

“Please don't touch me,” you murmur.

*

_**Present Day** _

*

Out the bar you go towards Ellie’s apartment, where you manage to evade both Pete (who’s hot on your trail) and Joel (who probably won’t intrude at this hour in the night).

“Y’know, you’re getting pretty good at this,” you say, parsing through her sketches while curling up on her couch like a cat. You get to a character study of Maria. “Some of these are really good—you’re a real Picasso.”

“Thanks.” She rolls over on her chair, hanging loose on the couch’s edge to look at what you’re looking, “Who’s Picasso?”

“Ellie, you can’t be serious.” You peer at her over the sketch of butterflies, eyes wrinkling in disbelief. “That’s like not knowing who Lincoln is.”

“I’m fucking with you,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Who’s Lincoln though?”

You toss a pillow at her head—a pillow that she catches with ease before kicking back to her desk. “If you opened up an art gallery, I’d probably purchase something,” you say, lining up the pages and placing them on the coffee table. “I’d be your first fan.”

“You’d probably be my only fan.”

“Don’t undersell yourself kid. That’s what van Gogh did and look what happened to that poor sucker.”

The corners of her lips curl up to form a faint smile. God, you love that smile. You want to protect it, even if it means throwing yourself in the line of fire. You sit up, linking your fingers around your knees, “Your birthday’s tomorrow. You got any plans?”

“Joel wants to show me something,” she says, lowering her gaze. And _oh_ , that sounds about right. “What’s going on with you two anyway?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” you say at once, standing up from the couch. You ruffle her hair, and she doesn’t fight you until you start mussing it up like a mohawk. “Hey, there’s that smile.”

Ellie pries you off, “Hey, don’t change the subject.” But you start squeezing her cheeks, stretching her face like a glob of play-doh. “Tell me what’s going on with you guys. You’ve been acting _weird_.”

“Just a minor disagreement,” you tell her.

“Can’t be so minor if you haven’t had a conversation in a week.”

Sometimes you forget how intuitive she is. “You know, I liked you better when you were fourteen,” you say, glancing at the clock on the wall. “You were much…cuter. And you asked a lot less questions.”

“Hey, I’m still cute.”

“Getting less cute with that big mouth of yours.”

She gives you a look, “Well, I do learn from the best.”

*

Joel always brews two cups of coffee in the morning. He doesn’t have much left to spare, but when you don’t show up, he decides to down both cups and call it a day. His bed’s been empty for a week -- he knows you’ve been staying over at Ellie’s apartment -- but he just never thought it would get to a point of no return.

Some of your clothes are gone, along with your essentials. That old perfume you like to wear. And your favorite pair of sneakers. Whatever you left behind you’ve apparently left behind for good…and he thinks this might be more than just a statement or a dumb grudge. Until you come bouncing in through the backdoor, a spring in your step as you grab yourself the extra coffee cup sitting on the table.

He thinks things might be back to normal until you look right past him. “Good morning,” you say, never quite meeting his gaze as you turn towards the kitchen island where Ellie’s eating breakfast while sketching what looks like a matador in her notebook. “I’m not here to talk, by the way.”

He lowers his gaze, wondering if he should bring this up right now, “So why _are_ you here?”

Ellie arches a brow, “Yikes.”

“To deliver a gift,” you say, looking at his face like it’s offending you before turning to Ellie with a smile. “Happy birthday, Picasso.”

You slide over a square package wrapped up in old newspapers. Ellie catches it at the edge of the counter. “Seriously?” She says, eyes beaming. “This is awesome! You actually found it!” She unravels a book of origami, studying empty pages before coming to a close.

"Looked everywhere for it," you sigh, loving the way her smile looks in the sunlight. "You really do have niche taste, you know?"

Joel sets his coffee aside before taking his place next to you, “Where’d you get that?”

“Nowhere,” you tell him, downing the contents of your coffee before moving to the sink to wash it out. Seems like you’re still being polite about house chores, even if you won’t look him in the eye.

He sighs, “Can we go outside and talk?”

“Nope. I’m good,” you say, smiling after setting your cup down on the drying rack while Ellie looks on from her plate of breakfast. “I’ll see you later,” you tack on, pressing a gentle little kiss to her cheek before heading towards the door. “I still owe you a movie tonight.”

“Yeah you do,” she calls out as the door slams shut behind you.

She turns to Joel, arching a brow. “Ooh, she’s _mad-mad_ at you.”

“That obvious?”

Ellie snorts, “What’d you do?”

“As if I’ll tell you,” he replies. “She’ll get over it.”

“Jury’s still out on that one, old man,” says Ellie. “I heard she has a date tonight with that Pete guy.”

Oh.

For whatever reason, it stings more than he expects. Even as Ellie hops up from her seat, leaving her dishes in the dink, patting him on the shoulder, “Hey, maybe you should do something nice to make it up for her?”

“Why do you always assume I’m in the wrong?”

“Well, are you?”

His silence says everything. “She says your name a lot in her sleep,” she grins, closing the door on the way out. “I think she still loves you, if that’s worth anything.”

*

Ellie isn’t wrong. You do have a date.

And it’s not hard to figure out where it is—there’s only a few places in the settlement to go. So there you are at the bar with Pete in a black dress that looks a little too short for comfort. Tight around all your curves. Your breasts look like they’re ready to burst from the seams.

Tommy whistles low, “Shit. No wonder you like ‘em young.”

“It’s not like that,” says Joel, sighing. “She’s…”

"She's what?"

Joel's quiet, ruminating over his cup of whiskey.

Tommy scoffs, “Don’t tell me you’re attached to her.”

*

You take a break from Pete, moving towards the bar to talk to Maria. “Wow, you look—sexy,” she says, eyeing your dress. “Get that from the costume shop?”

You kiss her on the cheek before leaning against the table, “Called in a favor. How’d you know professor?”

She laughs, nodding towards the door where Tommy and Joel are, “Well, your boyfriend can’t take his eyes off you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you sigh, reaching behind the bar for a bottle of scotch. “He doesn’t _do_ labels. Said he’s too old for that shit.” You pour yourself a glass, mulling it over. “I can’t compete against Tess, you know? I can’t compete with someone who’s no longer in the picture,” you say, lowering your gaze. “It’s just—no matter what I do, I can never have what they did.”

“He’s talked to you about Tess?”

“No, but I can see it. Things were probably easier with her.”

Maria follows your gaze across the room, “Well, probably.” She nudges you in the arm. “But he smiles a lot more with you around.”

*

You wake up to a pillow smashing into your face.

“Get up,” says Ellie, pulling at your arm. “Amazon delivery waiting for you outside, bozo.”

“How the hell do you even know what an Amazon delivery is,” you murmur, rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes as you get up from the couch. You head to the door and find a tiny little box waiting for you outside, wrapped in parchment paper. You pick it up, closing the door behind you as you make your way to Ellie’s desk, where you take a seat and rip it open.

She takes a seat on the table next to you, “What is it?”

It’s a mixtape.

 _Best Hits—70s_. Written on the back: _Sorry, I’m stupid_.

You clutch it slowly to your chest, looking at her.

"OK, cool. You guys are good now, right? It's time for you to leave."

"What? I just woke up."

"Your house is literally right there," she says, ushering you towards the door.

But you pretend to collapse over backwards, squishing her body underneath yours on the carpet. “Seriously! I have something to do. You need to go!” She protests, trying to wriggle out from underneath your weight.

“Oh, woe is me, Ellie. I’m—”

“ _ **SERIOUSLY**_!”

With the strength of a damned Mastiff, she shoves you out the door and locks the door behind her.

You rub your ear, "Jeez... what's gotten into her?"

*

The screen door shuts behind you as you make your way over to the kitchen island where Joel’s sitting. There’s a cup of coffee sitting there, untouched. “It’s yours,” he says, nodding towards it.

“Thanks,” you take it, and you take a seat next to him too. “The mixtape—”

“—it was nothin’,” he says. “Just thought you might like it.”

“You go to the record store for that?"

“Yeah."

You take a sip of your coffee, “Right by the costume shop. That's a helluva long way."

“Had a couple other things to pick up too.”

You lean against his shoulder, "Like what?"

"Eh, you'll see." At the scent of your perfume, he smiles a little. “So we good?”

You nod, “Yeah. I'm exhausted being angry all the time."

He looks relieved, “Good. ‘Cause I have somewhere to take you.”

“Like a date?”

“Like a date.”

*

The meadow he takes you to is filled with flowers you don't recognize, streams that go on forevermore, and trees that look like they're older than time. It's something out of a fairytale, something you never thought could actually exist--and had it not been for the broken cityscape in the background, you surely would've thought this was a different planet. Maybe a different universe.

And at the center of the meadow is Elvis. Literally Elvis. It takes you a second to realize it's Tommy dressed as Elvis. And next to him is Maria. And next to her is Ellie. Before them are two mounds of dirt in the sand.

"Joel..."

"Told you I was romantic," he says, letting you take the first step across the stream towards the mound.

You smile wryly, “Aren’t you supposed to ask--"

You turn back around and see him on one knee. A paper ring in a paper box. It's folded nearly, corners tucked into each other. It's origami.

You glance at Ellie, who's winking at you.

Joel takes a breath, “Marry me."

And slowly, not all at once, you break into a smile.

You nod.

*

You bury your face into the crook of his neck. Everything is sticky and hot, but none of it matters--because all you can do is feel happy as you study the paper rings around your fingers. All you can do is feel a flutter when you admire the contrast in your skin.

And then you sit up, suddenly, gasping. "Shit."

Joel sits up right after you, "What's wrong?"

“I haven’t gotten my—shit. Shit. Shit."

"Hey, you're gonna have to be more--"

You jump out of bed and into the bathroom, where you dig through the cupboard until you procure two boxes. Joel follows you, tugging on his pajama pants--and while he looks very good without his shirt (see: totally cut, scarred, and thick in a way that makes your groin ache), you also know you have other things to worry about.

"Go away, I need to pee," you say, coming to him.

"Are you sure you don't need--"

You slam the door shut before he gets a word in edgwise.

He sighs.

*

For what feels like forever, he waits. And waits. And waits.

Until the door opens again. You're standing there, holding two sticks in your hands.

“I’m pregnant.”

Joel immediately gets up from bed, “How the hell—is that even possible?"

"I--I don't know!" You fumble with the tests, shoving them into his hands. "They can't both be wrong, can they? Maybe Doctor Osteen was wrong?"

"...what do you wanna do?"

"I--I--" Again, you're fumbling. Pacing the room like you have somewhere to be. "Is--is it crazy to say I want to keep it?"

Slowly, his lips crease up to form a small smile, "No. It's not crazy."

But before you can even comprehend what this means, his arms are around you in a hug. "Shit, we're gonna have a baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Holy. Shit."

Holy shit indeed. As you bury your face into his shoulders, fingers tracing every scar you can find, you realize you feel hopeful.

You realize you feel _happy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the THINGs i would do to this man u dont understand
> 
> thinking about doing one more chapter to close it out... the happily ever after chapter.... where joel ellie u live in green pastures.... dina can come too.... and jesse i guess...... gonna write the ending i want because mr druckman wont do it for me
> 
> I JUST WANNA WRITE HAPPY ENDINGS FOR THIS MAN OK PLEASE DONT @ ME IF U HATE HAPPINESS ....
> 
> im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna scream abt tlou wif me....


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PURE SELF INDULGENCE

“OK—so my favorite thing. Just off the top of my head? Definitely way you look in a t-shirt,” you say, studying him over your mug of coffee. “And the veins in your arms? I like the way they bulge. It’s very, _very_ sexy.”

The corners of his lips curl into a smile, “Shoot, you’re makin’ me blush.”

For whatever reason, he’s content to just watch you by the sink—him and his many, many succulents. Weirdly enough, nesting has become sort of a big deal for him ever since you found out you were pregnant. “Guess I’ll have to keep that in mind next time I pick up supplies from the mall," he tacks on, downing the contents of his coffee before setting his cup in the sink.

“Yeah, and make sure you pick up some denim overalls when we start looking into our new house, farmboy,” you say, hugging one knee to your chest. “OK, now it's your turn.”

“Nah. Think I’m good."

“ _What the_ —that was not what we agreed to,” you snap, setting your cup down on the table before rounding the corner and jumping his bones—legs wrapped around his waist like a koala as he catches you by your thighs. “I say something nice, you say something nice back. You're so bad at keeping promises—I hate it."

“You _seriously_ gotta stop jumpin’ around like that,” he says. Still, he goes along with it, cupping your ass and making his way to the living room with your body in tow. “You’re gonna hurt yourself one day—and you’re prol’ly gonna hurt the baby too.”

“Oh, whatever. Big strong man can handle a little weight.”

“Big strong man is gonna accidentally drop you one day—and then you’ll be real sorry.”

“Pretty sure you’ll be the one feeling sorry.”

You haven’t even started showing yet, and you could probably do without the reminder of your fragility, but it’s nice to see him care about something other than surviving and living on the edge of desperation. There’s might be swath of disease and chaos outside these gates, but at least this is something you can call your own. And had it not been for the guns sitting pretty by the door, you might’ve completely lost yourself in the domestic fantasy.

“Hey, are you just gonna leave me hanging?” You say, frowning as he lowers you down on the couch back first. He's oddly gentle, slow like he's handling a glass vase, and it isn't until your entire weight is resting easy that he lets go with a soft grunt. “You still owe me.”

“Fine. I like that you’re horny all that time,” he says, and hey, maybe that’s a little too on-the-nose but it’s totally fair too.

You _are_ horny, moreso than usual, but leave it to Joel to completely miss the point.

"Ugh, fuck you."

He looks amused, pulling back with his hands resting on his waist, “Oh? Right now?”

You toss a pillow at his face--a pillow that he catches with ease. “Hardy har har. You’re hilarious. And I’m changing my answer, by the way,” you say. “I like your giant caveman club of a dick—”

“Hey, why you always gotta be so crass about it?”

“You started it.”

Your hormones have been raging nonstop, which means you’ve been trying to jump his bones at every conceivable opportunity. Even at the most inopportune times, like when he’s arriving home from patrol, covered in sweat and grime. Or when he’s doing something else, like playing the guitar on the front porch. Or in the quieter, more unobtrusive moments—when he’s making dinner in the kitchen. Or when he’s in the middle of brewing coffee. Totally focused, totally in the zone.

What can you say? You like breaking his concentration.

“Seems to me like you’re getting the nice old sex end of the stick here,” you say as he straddles you on the couch, leaning over to kiss your cheek before kissing your neck.

“I’m not complainin’,” he murmurs, moving down to your sweatpants.

He peels them off slowly, pressing a kiss to your navel—before pressing another kiss to your lower abdomen, making goosebumps form on your skin. Your pants end up curled around your ankles and he helps you remove them, one leg at a time, until you’re left in nothing but your underwear and flannel.

“I’m not putting out until you say something nice,” you tell him, crossing your legs together.

He sighs, rolling over into to the space between you and the couch back so that he’s spooning you from behind. “I like your face,” he says, curling up around you—he’s so big he could probably consume your entire body with a hug.

“I would like more specificity please.”

“Don’t you think you’re gettin’ greedy now?”

“And what about it?” You can feel him bury his face into your neck—the fuzz of his beard tickling your skin. “I’m nice to you—you’re nice to me. It’s called give and take.”

“Fine. I like your smile. It's real pretty,” he says. “And I like your big mouth, even when it ticks me off.”

“Yeah, ‘kay, whatever,” you mutter. “I bet you like that mouth for other reasons too.”

“Shit, how’d you know?”

You roll around lazily to punch him in the arm, but he catches your wrist and interrupts whatever fight you have with a kiss. “I hope I turn real fat—like a bloater,” you tell him with zero resolve as he props himself up, straddling you with both legs. “You’re gonna be really sorry then.”

“You could grow bigger than this house—don’t mean a thing to me. Would still like ya the same.”

“Ugh, you’re so full of shit,” you mumble as he pulls back your shirt.

“All me, baby. Here—just let me do the work,” he murmurs, going further and further down until he reaches the hem of your underwear. “Give and take, right?”

“You’ve been doing a lot of giving,” you mutter.

It’s true. He’s been eating you out every chance he gets, making you cum over and over until you’re literally begging him to stop and take it easy. Most of the times you don’t even get to fuck you properly. You don’t know what's gotten into him, but you blame it on the pheromones. He’s probably just as wound up as you are with a baby on the way.

So you let him peel off your underwear—and you let him press his mouth against your folds.

“You’re so sexy, you know that?”

You hum, “Tell me more nice things…”

The praise makes you arch your back. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck. Just wanna— _fuck--just wanna ruin you_.” His face is totally buried in your cunt, tongue lapping that pleasure point over and over until you’re whining for him to keep going. “Yeah, you like that baby? You wanna cum right?”

And you do. Hard. Moaning his name and convulsing until you’re completely dripping in the aftermath.

“That was one,” he says, looking up and wiping away the wetness from his chin.

He slides one finger inside you, “Let's go again?”

“Joel—you don’t—”

But that look on his face is so filled with desire and lust that you immediately reel back whatever it is you want to offer him. You nod, pursing your lips as you sink back into the couch, feeling his mouth close around you again.

*

You bring dinner for Ellie that night. She’s been avoiding the main house but doesn’t mind your unplanned stopovers. For the most part, nothing has changed between you two, but she’s been quieter. Less snippy. Less sass. Something’s happened, something she’s been mulling over, but you try not to pry too much.

“Pasta again,” you say, dropping off the hot plate covered in tin foil on her desk. She’s working on a sketch in her journal, one of a giraffe. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

“Thanks,” she says, not quite touching the plate yet. She’s still working on her sketch, never really looking your way as you take a seat on the couch behind her desk.

When the silence stretches too long, you ask, “Everything good with you?”

“Yeah.”

Hm, that doesn’t sound convincing, but you decide not to dig in too deep. “You know you can always talk to me if you need to,” you say. “About anything—”

“—I know.” She turns around on her rolling chair to meet your gaze. “Seriously, I’m good. Just have a lot on my mind these days.”

You hum, studying her face. Weird to think she’s lost most of her baby fat. She looks like a full-grown adult in the shadows of her desk lamp. Apparently she notices you staring because she goes on, “Don’t you have babies to deliver or something? Isn’t Carla in labor right now?”

“She probably won’t be ready to push for another few hours,” you say, examining the trinkets in her room. Some are new—from patrol, you can only assume. “Speaking of babies, I wanted to keep this a secret but I don’t think Joel will mind if I say it first. Full disclosure, this was _completely_ accidental, completely unplanned—but we’re calling it a happy surprise, alright?”

Ellie yawns, “Lemme guess, you’re pregnant.”

You blink, “What the—he _told_ you?”

But that look of indifference on her face melts into something of shock. “Shit, I was messin’ around but—Jesus. You’re actually pregnant?”

“I am.”

A smile blooms on her face, “Holy crap, does that make me an aunt?”

“I was hoping older sister, but whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want, huh.” She taps her chin, thinking. “Then can I name the baby?”

“OK buddy-o, don’t get ahead of yourself."

*

After Carla's delivery, you don’t get home until 2am in the morning.

You find a familiar face waiting for you on the porch. Drinking coffee and playing his guitar. When he catches sight of you, he smiles, “Hi baby.” He sets his guitar aside, which is great because you immediately plant yourself down on his lap and curl up like a cat. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, loving the way he smells. So familiar, like home. “Went well, though. Cute baby too."

He strokes the small of your back, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Good.”

“What’d you do today?"

“Went on patrol, learned a new song,” he replies. “It’s Dylan—the one you like.”

You yawn, burying your face as deep as you can, “I wanna hear it.”

“Sure. One day.”

“One day means _never_ in Joel-speak. I hate it.”

He laughs a little, “Well, y’know. You hate a lot of things."

"Yeah but I hate your empty promises the most."

For a while, the two of your stay like that. Just enjoying each other’s company in the silence of the night. Not a soul is awake here in Jackson at this hour, maybe except the patrol that’s on duty outside the gates. It’s so peaceful— _so peaceful_ in fact that you end up falling asleep on him.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before carrying you in through the front door, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. “You should tell her,” you whisper softly into the crook of his neck as he sets you down on your side of the bed.

He pauses before moving to clear up the bed, “What is the point of keepin’ all these pillows only to take ‘em off at night,” he murmurs to no one in particular as he stores them away into the cabinet on the far side of the wall.

“Don’t change the subject,” you say, curling into your blanket. “You need to tell Ellie the truth. Otherwise she’ll figure it out sooner or later—and when she does, it’ll be too late to make amends.”

He’d never told you the big picture, but you weren’t an idiot. You could put two and two together. After hanging around Tommy and Maria so much, you’d pretty much put all the pieces together to get a sense of what happened.

He sighs, taking off his coat before moving to take off his belt and pants next. The rustle of his clothes is a familiar one as he crawls towards you, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a hug. “Think it might already be too late to make amends,” he murmurs into your hair.

You hum, feeling his bushy beard brush against your cheek, “I don’t think it’s ever too late.”

“How would you know.”

But you’re already fast asleep, breathing steady and even. He murmurs your name, but you offer no response, so he tucks you into the blankets, running his fingers through your hair. He doesn’t tell you he loves you yet, but that’s OK—you probably already know.

*

Months later, you start showing. A subtle swell in your lower abdomen that’s almost unavoidable. You start taking some old prenatal vitamins that Maria manages to trade for—and almost everyone in your immediate circle starts coddling you, mostly Joel, who treats you like you’re made of glass. He opens every door for you, walks you to work, and makes sure you’re eating three meals a day while going out of bounds to get you whatever weird craving you have. (Cheetos and peanut butter is this week’s flavor.)

But Ellie’s become more and more distant—distant enough for you to notice. She’ll help you set up the baby room, scouring for shelves and cabinets on her patrols, but she never stays long enough for you to ask her what’s going on.

It’s only when she’s gone for two days that you realize something’s off. Joel goes after her, leaving you under Tommy and Maria’s care, and it isn’t until they return that you realize Ellie knows the truth.

She stops speaking to Joel—for the most part, she can’t even look at him, but she offers you a bit of leniency as you stop by her complex to drop off dinner.

“Did you know?”

You watch her muss up the covering from your end of the couch, “Yeah.” You decide not to beat around the bush, lowering your gaze.

Her face melts into something of hurt and god it _stings_.

“My life would’ve meant something,” she says, hugging her knees to her chest. She doesn’t look angry, just disappointed. “He took that away."

“Your life still means something,” you tell her.

“I—I _know_ that, but.”

And then it’s silent. You can’t possibly comprehend how she feels, so the most you can do is try and explain to her the gravity of the decision that was made—and how much it still tortures Joel to this day.

“What if it didn’t work?” You say, pausing to study her sketches on the wall. You find your face in one of them--you look much younger, much brighter. "What if they developed a vaccine and it didn't work?"

“But what if it did?”

"OK, let's say it did." You take a breath, _exhale_. "Do you think the Fireflies would've been efficient enough to produce and distribute it? Or do you think it would've ended being used as a bartering tool?"

She's quiet.

You pause again, lowering your gaze to the pile of cotton fluff that’s formed beneath Ellie’s hands. “What if it were Joel?”

She scrunches her face.

“What if your positions were switched? What if the Fireflies told you they were going to sacrifice Joel’s life without him knowing?”

“Don’t do that,” she whispers. “Don’t turn this around. That’s not fair.”

You consider it for a little bit, watching her chew on her nails. You’re not sure when she started showing that nervous tick, but you decide to save that conversation for another day. For now, you lean over, press a kiss to her forehead and get up from the couch. "I don't think it was fair that he was put in that position that day," you tell her, softly. “Please don’t be mad at him for too long."

“Yeah? And how are you so sure I’m not mad at you too?”

“’Cause I’m pregnant.”

She groans, leaning back into her seat, “You can’t use that as a shield forever.”

You beam at her, brushing her hair behind her ear, "I'm gonna be using it as long as I can." And then you press one more kiss to her forehead. "Love you, good night."

*

Joel’s hair is getting long. You run your fingers through it, reminding yourself to cut it for him next time you get your hands on a scissor. You try to imagine what he'd look like with a new haircut, but the image doesn't compare to how he looks now. He looks older, wiser--and you think you might actually like the gray in his hair.

“You didn’t have to do that," he murmurs, hugging you tight on his lap. In a few more months, you probably won't be able to even fit on his lap. "You should’ve told her the truth.”

“We’re in this together. I’m not just gonna leave you high and dry out there,” you say, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m not just gonna abandon you like that—and besides, she can’t stay mad at us forever. I’m growing another baby in here and she’s soft."

He smiles, "And how d'ya reckon that?"

"'Cause she could've killed me back when I was with David, but she didn't."

And then he stops, pausing as his hand massages the small of your back. "If we'd gone our separate ways that day, what would you have done?"

You card your fingers through his hair, breaking every tassel gently before caressing his cheek. "Honestly, I'd planned on killing myself," you tell him. "Had a rope and everything ready. Ellie knew--probably 'cause I told her." You sigh, "That's probably why she was so adamant about not leaving me there."

There's a look in his face--something of pain, something of hurt, "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because it's in the past," you reply, smiling at him. "Because I met you--and found a life better than the one I was given."

His face contorts into something of concern as he pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

He knows your story. Knows your past. At this point, you don't have much to hide. You'd just been waiting for the right time. "You saved more than one life," you whisper, curling into his arms as the night wind sifts through the porch. "I hope you know that."

Now he does--and all he can do is look at you and think about how much he wants to protect you for the rest of his life.

For some time, both of you just sit there in silence, watching the late evening crowd pass by before you.

"So. Important question--do you want a boy or girl?" You ask, pulling up to admire his profile--he has a nice nose, you think, admiring how handsome he looks under the moonlight.

"I'd be happy either way."

"Oh come on. I'm not gonna judge you," you roll your eyes. "I'm your wife, remember?"

Duh. Still, it makes him smile as he glances down at your belly and the small bump that's beginning to form. "Well, if you insist--I'd like a boy," he says. "Can't deal with all this estrogen around."

You hum, "I'd like a girl. Guess we'll have to see who's god's favorite."

"You prol'ly got me beat. A girl it is."

"What would you name her?"

"Hm...how 'bout Mary?"

"Pass." You wrinkle your nose, looking out at the passing faces in the main road. "How about Annette?"

He nods, slightly, "I'd be happy with that."

"And if it's a boy?" Your eyes light up. "You know what? If it's a boy, let's name him after you."

He chuckles, "That'll get real confusin'."

"We could call him Junior." Weirdly enough, you quite like the name of that on your tongue. "Yeah, Junior."

He presses a kiss to your cheek, "I'd like that."

*

It's quiet.

Neither Ellie nor Joel speak as you scope out the master bedroom of the house, looking out the window to see greener pastures. Your stomach is about ready to burst, but for the most part the baby’s been chilling.

“I reckon we could get a couple sheep out here,” says Joel, staring at the barn in the distance. “And chickens, if that’s what you’re into.”

“The horses would have a nice life too. Grazing on fresh grass.”

“They sure would.”

“Ellie?”

“Uh—yeah.” She looks right past Joel at the barn. “It would be nice.”

It's been a slow, arduous process. But Ellie's gotten to the point of acknowledging whatever Joel says with one-word answers, which is somewhat better than straight up ignoring him. And you were right--she does let you off easy because you have a baby on the way, but it hurts to see that their relationship is in a state of disarray.

You take a seat on the mattress, the springs screeching under your weight. "There's three bedrooms here. We could have Ellie stay--"

A single cry pierces the air.

"Shit." Joel immediately springs to action, grabbing his gun from the door and slinging it over his back. "We've got company."

 _"Fuck_. Clickers?" You utter, feeling your back ache.

Ellie hands you a knife from her pocket, "We've got you covered," she says, and you take it, albeit hesitantly. She leaves you a handgun on the nightstand. "This is insurance in case."

Joel comes to your side immediately, pressing a kiss to your forehead, "Stay here--and don't make a sound. And lock the door when we head out, alright? We're just gonna clear the perimeter. Prol'ly just a few clickers here and there--nothin' to it at all."

"OK," you say, taking a deep breath, looking over your shoulder at Ellie. "Please stay safe."

She offers you a weary smile, "We've got you."

 _We_.

Before you get a chance to point that out, they leave, closing the door behind them. You get up to lock the door, waddling back to the bed--

And your water breaks.

*

Mothers have been doing this for centuries—long before you were born. And they did it with no epidural, no pain medication, and no comfort. You can do this, you think, as the first contraction hits you with a white-hot force of adrenaline.

You manage to curtail the screaming by stuffing your jacket sleeve into your mouth, and for the most part, it works as you hear gunshots going off on the floor below.

There's screaming--but you're in so much pain all you can do is close your eyes, push, and try to muffle your cries of agony as best you can--

Until something hits the door with a thrash.

Your breath hitches--you wait for whatever it is that came to quiet down, but it comes again--this time harder.

And then it crashes through--a runner. His eyes are wild with desperation, and as soon as he sets his gaze on you, you reach for the gun and pull the trigger.

*

"I think that's the last of 'em."

Joel comes up the stairs of the front door, taking a breath as he looks at the carnage leftover. Not a single runner or clicker left in sight. "Maybe you should've stayed in Jackson," says Ellie, kicking aside a corpse.

He laughs, "Y'know--maybe you're right. Maybe we should've."

It's the most words they've exchanged in the past few months. He considers it a minor victory until he comes to a halt by the stairs, where there's a streak of blood.

"Shit."

Ellie immediately catches on as he bolts up the stairs, into the bedroom where the door's been torn down.

Where he finds you holding a baby in your arms, a single corpse dead on the ground.

"Holy shit," says Ellie, slinging her rifle over her back. "You delivered your own baby."

You smile, weakly, meeting their gaze, "Killed a runner too. All in a day's work, right?"

Whatever semblance of reason Joel has immediately falls apart as he comes to your side of the bed, looking at you and the baby with all the care and adoration in the world.

And then.

It all comes unraveling, as tears start streaming down his face. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry--"

"It's OK," you whisper, touching his cheek. Your baby's wrapped up in your jacket, looking very pruny and alien-ish. "Would you like to hold him?"

Joel pauses, "It's a boy?"

"Yeah," you smile, waving Ellie over. "Guess that means you're god's favorite."

*

**_One year later_ **

*

"Junior, stay."

"Ellie, he's not a dog," you laugh, watching her try and wrestle your baby into a sitting position on the mats on the porch.

"I know, but I'm tryna get this portrait done," she states, taking her seat on the steps and fishing out her sketchpad. "Gotta say--you two made a really cute baby."

You smile.

Joel makes his way through the front entrance of the door, carrying his guitar. He rests it by the chair, immediately sinking down to pick up Junior, who laughs and giggles like he's being tickled. "Oooh, look at 'im go," he says, tossing him into the air.

"Hello? Put my subject back on the ground please," says Ellie, sighing.

Junior shrieks with delight as Joel catches him with two hands like a sack of rice, "Alright, alright. Get your damn sketches in," he murmurs, setting him back down on the ground. But Junior immediately paws for Joel again, leaving his mat to crawl back.

Ellie sighs, "I can't finish it like this." She stands up. "Alright, I'm kidnapping your baby for the night."

You laugh, watching as Ellie bends down to pick up Junior from the ground--Junior who seems content to let any stranger take him wherever he wants. Oh, to be cute and innocent like that forever. "I'll have him back after dinner," she says. "'Cause he'll be my meal."

"Ha ha. Very funny," says Joel, taking a seat on the porch bench before grabbing his guitar from the doorway.

Ellie sticks a single tongue out before turning and heading down the road.

"Good timin'--'cause I wanted to sing you somethin'," he says, looking at you.

You blink, "Wait, seriously?"

A small smile forms on his lips, "Yeah, if you'll listen."

You immediately sit before him on the ground, looking up at him intently like you're studying a painting, "Of course I'll listen," you say, looking very serious about it. "You've been promising this shit to me for, like, ever."

He start tuning his guitar, "Yeah, and I intend to keep my promises."

"Wow, that would be a first."

"Oh, you shut it."

He clears his throat, lining up his fingers and taking a breath, "It's Dylan, alright? Don't get mad at me 'cause my voice ain't like his."

You zip your lips, looking at him with all the love and adoration in the world.

He starts strumming.

“If you’re travelin’ ‘til the north country fair…where the winds hit heavy…on the borderline.”

He clears his throat, continuing, “Remember me—to the one who lives there. For she once was the true love of mine.”

 _See for me if her hair’s hangin’ down  
_ _It curls and falls  
_ _All down her breast  
_ _See for me that her hair’s hangin’ down_  
_That’s the way I remember  
_ _Her best._

And then he stops. Sets his guitar aside.

"Not quite there yet, but--"

You immediately stand up and crawl onto his lap, straddling him before kissing him on the face. "I loved it," you tell him. "It was perfect."

He kisses you back--on the mouth, then on the cheek--before brushing a lock of hair away from your face.

“I know I don’t say it much,” he whispers. “But I love you.”

You smile, curling up into his shoulder, “I know.”

* * *

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Je4Eg77YSSA)! based on dylan's girl from north country, which is not-so-coincidentally where i got the title too
> 
> always on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna talk about joel miller BANGS
> 
> my [OTHER JOEL/READER STORY](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290700/chapters/61317844) YES IT IS COMPLETE I JUST HAVE A LOT OF LOVE FOR THIS MAN


	4. epilogue 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PWP because im hella thirsty for joel and because he deserves to get blown

It’s not often that you find time to have a date night, but since Ellie volunteered to watch Junior with Dina, you and Joel decided to take advantage of that offer and take a night out for yourselves.

“So you’re tellin’ me…the woman in this… _drama_ —she’s in love with that…pharmacist.”

“Yes,” you answer, patient as a saint, watching the glow of the television screen with wide eyes. You’re vaguely aware that Joel is scooting closer, but you don’t really care; you’re so deeply engrossed in whatever plot point is playing out before you that you completely gloss over the fact that his arm is snaking around your waist.

“But she’s with someone else,” he goes on, glancing at the screen for less than a moment before staring back at you. “Some type of—longterm relationship.”

“Yes.”

"And she don't wanna marry him."

"Yes, that would be correct."

“So why won’t she just break up with ‘im and get with that pharmacist guy.”

“Because then there would be no drama,” you sigh, but when you turn back around you see that he’s pressed up right against you. Face inches away; you can practically taste his breath on your mouth, and next thing you know he’s burying his face into your neck. Lips pressed up against your skin, tongue lathering that—

“Joel.”

“What,” his mouth comes off your neck and he meets your gaze with hungry eyes.

One hand rests on the small of your back while the other hand starts slinking between your legs.

“The drama—”

And then he stops. Looks at you with a soft little smile. His eyes are twinkling; he looks like he’s looking into the universe in those eyes of yours.

He brushes away the hair from your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek before standing. "I'll go grab us some wine."

You hang onto him by the hem of his shirt, stopping him in his tracks before he can turn.

Slowly, you undo his belt buckle, never quite lowering your gaze as you loosen the notch and reach for the buttons of his jeans next. He doesn’t stop you, just watches with half-lidded eyes as you ease down his jeans. He’s already half-hard for you and it doesn’t take much force to hook your thumbs at hem of his underwear, pulling down.

His cock is illuminated by the glow of the television set and you don’t think twice, parting your lips to swallow him.

He stifles a groan, which is somehow even sexier than actually groaning itself. His fingers immediately card for your hair, as you try to take as much of him as you can inside your mouth while your hands wrap around his shaft.

His cock goes stiff and he tugs gently at your scalp as you go deeper, feeling him touch the back of your throat as you gift his shaft a long, slow lick. “ _Shit_ —” He sounds breathless already, and when you look up to meet his gaze, you find him looking back with pupils blown with desire. “Your mouth feels so good.”

You continue swirling circles around the head of his cock, alternating between using the tip of your tongue and pulling one long lick along the base of his shaft. You try to take every veiny inch you can, and at some point, you can feel him pull your scalp in a gentle, caressing rhythm. “You’re doin’ so good,” he murmurs, craning his neck back. You get a taste of his precum, salty on your tongue as you peer up at him again. He tries not to unravel on the spot, seeing how delirious you are for him.

He starts thrusting gently into your mouth and you can almost feel the tip of his cock touch the back of your throat as your eyes immediately well up with tears. “Fuck. Sorry,” he whispers, but you don’t care; you want him to fuck your mouth. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, pulling back to wipe away the dribble on your chin.

You swallow his cock again, licking the shaft and cupping his balls with your palm. He _groans_ , uttering a litany of curses under his breath—some that you catch, some that you don’t. “—wanna fuck you so bad,” he whispers. “Want to be inside you when you cum.” And when you moan at the thought, he starts carding his fingers through your hair again. “Want you so bad. Just you, only you—”

He pulls you all the way back and you blink at him, looking very much confused.

"Joel?"

He pauses, looking back down at you, and before you get a chance to beckon his cock back into your mouth, he leans over and presses his lips against yours, tongue probing for entrance—that you grant. He immediately starts exploring the caverns of your mouth, pressing his entire weight into you, _into the couch_ , as you crane your neck against the armrest.

He tastes so good and his kiss is so consuming you don’t even realize his hand is slinking between your legs to push aside your underwear. You’re already wet, sticky against his palm, but he doesn’t touch you yet. Just continues ramming his tongue into your mouth until he’s all you can taste, all you can fit. Your face burns hot as you wind your fingers through his hair and you can vaguely make out the wetness of his cock pressed up against your stomach.

But then he gets up, flips you over onto your stomach as your cheek hits the cushion of the couch. He shoves aside your underwear. Sometimes you forget how freakishly strong he is.

Just when you think he’s about to shove himself inside you—just when you think his cock is about to fill you whole, you feel his tongue instead. _Oh_. He’s eating you out from behind. The sensation startles you, confuses you, before you start melting into the pleasure with a moan.

A single finger sinks inside you as his tongue probes for the peak between your folds. You’re already wet, but you’re starting to drip on the couch as his mouth alternates between licking at your asshole and swirling around your clit.

“F—fuck," you murmur.

You don't get an answer, but you're pretty sure it's because your face is halfway buried into the couch. All you can hear now is the rush of blood in your ears and the thump of your heart in your stomach.

Your legs are already starting to quiver, even as his hands grab your ass for leverage.

“Joel—I’m not gonna last long—”

And then he stops.

He pulls away and suddenly you’re regretting what you said. "That's no good." It had been in the heat of the moment and you weren’t lying, but the coldness from where he parts from between your legs has you shivering. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ ‘bout that.”

You don’t get the chance to catch your breath before he sheathes himself between your folds, slamming inside you all the way. Right to the hilt of his shaft. He pauses, taking in all the sensation—and you have to pause too, uttering a groan of desire as you try to push yourself up onto your elbows.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —he’s so deep, and he’s filling you so whole you think you might just tear apart in delirium and pleasure.

He grabs two fistfuls of your asscheeks, rolling his hips into you from behind as you rock gently with his rhythm. For a while, the two of you just try to digest one another and the parts that tether you together now. You’re yielding, slowly, into the couch, and he’s trying not to completely pound into you and ruin you from the inside out.

“God…you feel so good. So tight,” he whispers, carding one hand through your hair before leaning over, his chest pressed against your back. “For me, right?”

You yield, nodding as that same hand slinks down to your neck instead. His fingers wrapping around your skin. He’s half-thrusting inside you and you can feel his tongue lather your skin from your shoulder to your neck. “Every part of you tastes so good,” he murmurs into your neck.

“Faster,” it’s the only word you can utter as he continues torturing you at this slow, arduous pace. “Go faster.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.”

“ _Nicer_.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” you try not to physically throw the first punch at him but you’re completely at the mercy of his fucking anyway. “Please—fuck me faster—harder. _Please_ , please—"

You can feel the soft pad of his middle finger press up against the peak between your folds—as he pulls out and _slams_ right into you again. He starts thrusting as hard as he can and you feel every pound of his cock fill you whole again. If it weren’t for your face being half-buried into the couch cushions, you’d probably scream his name, but alas.

“Yeah, you like that? God you take my cock so well.” He whispers. “How ‘bout I put another baby inside you?”

“Mmfhpgh—”

“That a yes?” He whispers.

You nod, wildy, and his other hand reaches for the dip of your hips and the stimulation of his finger on your clit, combined with the sensation of his rock-hard cock tearing you apart from the inside out, is enough to make that delicious itch build inside you—until you’re clenching for something else. Something desperate.

“Say it.”

“Please,” your eyes are completely blown with desperation. “Please—"

“Say you want me to cum inside you.”

You’ll say whatever he wants; you’ll do whatever he wants. “I want you to cum inside me,” you tell him, but it’s a completely automated response blown on desperation and fervor.

He starts losing himself in the pleasure, pressed down against your back again; he’s leaving kisses down your neck, biting into your shoulder. The both of you are practically melting into the couch together, and when he presses just right—his finger still drawing wild circles against your clit with no resolve whatsoever—while his cock continues thrusting inside you—

You cum. It's sudden. Everything explodes inside you like a white tsunami-wave rush of endorphins and adrenaline. The tremors hit next as you start convulsing underneath him. He’s still thrusting inside you, but he’s starting to lose his rhythm.

He cums right after you with a soft grunt.

“Fu—ck.”

You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he spills his seed, and when he pulls out, there’s a line of cum connecting you to him. He watches that pearl between your legs and thinks it must be the hottest fucking thing he’s seen in a long time.

“We missed the whole episode,” you mutter, looking at the glow of the television to see the credits rolling. “Now we have to rewatch it from the beginning.”

“Don’t matter. We got all the time in the world,” he tells you, pressing a kiss to your lower back.

“By the way, I meant what I said.” He’s completely soaked in sweat as he leans over and presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “Let’s make another baby.”

You scoff, closing your eyes. It wouldn’t be so bad giving Junior a sibling to play with. You’re not totally opposed to the idea, but it’s probably a conversation you should have seriously over dinner and not in the throws of sex.

“Alright, fine.” You sigh, but you smile too. “Let’s do it.”

**

Junior’s getting fat, but you like him this way.

You like him even more when he’s passed out, arms and legs akimbo, on daddy’s stomach. It’s funny to think he’s a full-grown toddler now, but he hasn’t gotten past saying two or three-word sentences. _I’m hungry. No dad. No mom. Ellie! Want Ellie! See Ellie! Dina! Ellie! Dina-Ellie!_

Apparently he’s already playing favorites.

And he’s looking more and more like Joel every day. Piercing eyes, a headful of thick brown hair that gets mussed up when he sleeps. They both drool. And sleeptalk. It's almost uncanny how alike they are.

Sunday mornings aren’t so bad when it’s just you, Joel, and baby boy. Napping under the hazy afternoon sun on the porch. You come out with a pitcher of sweet tea and three glasses, setting it down on the coffee table before taking a seat on the steps—

Ellie manifests from the yard, crossing her arms over her chest, “You three sure look cozy.”

You smile, glancing back at Joel who’s snoring away while Junior also snores away on his stomach. “Cozy is one way of looking at it.” You offer her a glass of sweet tea and she takes it without question. “Wanna come over for dinner tonight?”

“Sure.” But she pauses, thinking.

You study her, looking very much none-the-wiser as you tack on, “You should bring Dina.”

She meets your gaze, swallowing her tea, “That obvious, huh.”

“Well, obvious to everyone except,” you glance over your shoulder at your snoring husband. “For some people.”

An unwitting smile forms on her lips, “Fine. Dinner's good. But no questions.”

“No questions at all.”

Junior blinks awake, but he rolls off Joel’s stomach and immediately _bolts_ at the sight of Ellie. She barely catches him in her arms, twirling him around a circle before hoisting him up onto a hip. “Hi stinker,” she says, sniffing at him. “You smell like horses.”

He blows a raspberry against her cheek, “ _You_ ’re horse.”

“No _you’re horse_.”

It’s quite a nice sight, as Joel grunts awake, rubbing his eyes and smiling at the sight before you—his entire little family. You, Ellie, Junior. He leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek and stops at the steps. “Hey kiddo." But Junior starts giggling in her arms, doing a half-bridge like a contortionist.

“Love Ellie,” he snorts, as she flips him upside down.

“Love you too stinker,” she murmurs, laying him down the ground.

But he immediately bolts towards you next, crushing you with a tackle that sends you reeling into the porch. “ _Oof—_ "

“Love momma,” he whispers, rubbing his sticky fingers through your hair. You hug him back, feeling how small he is in your arms and wondering just how long you’re going to get to hold him like this. “ _Love momma—_ ”

You sit up, but he’s already on his way, pawing at Joel’s feet. He’s asking to be picked up, and of course, Joel obliges, scooping him into one arm like he’s a sack of potatoes. “Gettin’ mighty heavy,” he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he looks at Ellie. “And you’re gettin’ too skinny.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, “Noted.”

“Love poppa,” Junior interjects, pressing a slopping kiss to Joel’s beard. “Love poppa. Poppa big. Love poppa.”

Joel presses a kiss back to Junior’s forehead, looking at him with all the adoration and love in the world. “Love you too, fatty,” he says.

You glance at Ellie, “So—we were thinking.”

“About having another kid,” she finishes for you, looking very much bored at the thought. “Yeah, I figured.”

Joel snorts, “Yeah? You some kind of mind reader?”

She exchanges a glance with you, “Maybe you two just aren’t as subtle as you think.”

“Oh, let’s not get into subtlety,” you state, arching a brow at her, hoping she gets whatever telepathic message you’re trying to send about Dina and dinner. “Anyway, what do you think?”

“It’s your life—your decisions. I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

“Just tell us if you want a boy or girl,” says Joel, doing a little dance with Junior in his arms. “Not that we can control it—but it’d be nice to get your input.”

She snorts, “My input is to enjoy what you have. And whatever comes—comes.”

But that’s just it. She’ll say she doesn’t care, but then she’ll kidnap your baby to watch for fun. You have gotten to know this world; you’d say you know her pretty well by now. But as you gaze on, watching your tiny little oddball family laugh, you think there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

Joel smiles, “Fair enough.”

You don’t see him smile often, but he’s been smiling a lot more nowadays. It’s probably one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u liked it plz leave a comment to feed me i am hungry.. 
> 
> if u feed me mayhaps i will consider writing more...
> 
> bonus points to anyone who can name the drama i am talking about in this story
> 
> am on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna scream abt tlou wif me....


	5. epilogue 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ll wonder if it’s possible to love someone you’ve never met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! this is an alternate universe in which reader and joel have never met, there is no zombie apocalypse, and there is no ellie/tlou universe

You could’ve met anywhere. Any time, any place, _any moment_. That’s all it takes. One moment. Just one. Something you could never recognize in present, only in passing. You’d call it irrelevant, maybe even contrived, but then you meet the love of your life and everything changes forever.

Problem is, you were never meant to meet to begin with.

*

In this life, you get everything you ever wanted.

A cushy job. A boyfriend who loves you. A condo that has its own washer and dryer. Parents that are healthy and happy, undivorced. And a dog named Felix you adopted from the pound six months ago.

Yes, you have everything you want, you think, as you sit at a bar in the middle of nowhere. You’re waiting on the tow truck to come pick up your Range Rover that’s broken down at the side of the road, limping to its final destination, this random dudebro bar called _Jack's_. It's filled with men with tattoos, pool tables that haven't been reupholstered in years, and neon lights of cartoon chicks carrying beers between their tits.

Your boyfriend’s taking his first-beer piss in the bathroom and you’re nursing a glass of Chardonnay that tastes stale. Like it’s been left out in the open for days. You down the contents and decide to go for a beer instead, asking for whatever’s on tap. The bartender gives you a disgruntled look.

Everything about you is out of place. You’re wearing a black dress that looks like you’re trying way too hard to impress, but the truth is you’re coming from a wake two miles down the road. You have pearls on too, along with a pair of Louboutins that've probably seen better days under the sun, and had it not been for the tender smile and doting gaze, you'd almost be mistaken for Cruella de Vil. You're pretty sure that's the only thing stopping the dudes at the bar from approaching you.

“Hi.”

And then you blink up and see a stranger staring you down, looking very sheepish about it while his friends at the booth goad him on. They all look middle-aged, some of them in construction hats. They say you can tell a lot about someone by how they dress, who they hang out with, and what they smell like. And you get the sense this is a man you'd never blink twice at, except, well, he has nice eyes. Hazel. Tired. Trusting, in a way.

“Hi,” the word escapes you before you can even digest the fact that you’re talking to a stranger in a bar somewhere far, far away. But it’s so natural, _so compelling_ , that you can’t even be mad about it. You just have this ridiculous feeling that this is where you should be. This is who you should be talking to.

“Do you mind?” He pauses, glancing at the empty seat beside you.

You glance at the bathroom door, still closed, and nod at the seat. He takes it.

“How can I help you,” you decide to tease him a bit. He looks pretty nervous and you— _you’ve had a long day_. You can afford to have a little fun with this.

“I’m Joel,” he says, and then he pauses. Rubbing his temples like he’s already stressed over this conversation, probably thinking about what comes next. “Listen, uh…I don’t do this very often.” And then he shoots a glare at his giggly friends in the booth before turning back to you.

The bartender sets down your beer and you take a swig, nodding, “Neither do I.” And then you meet his gaze with a smile. “Talk to strangers in bars, I mean.”

Something settles on his face as he eases his shoulders. Apparently you’ve said the right thing.

“Where’re you from?”

You smile, “Take a guess.”

He cranes his neck back to study you, taking a sip of beer before rubbing his chin. Deep in thought. You notice he avoids your very obvious neckline, focusing mostly on your face with a dubious smile that spells trouble. “Seems to me you’re from the city,” he says.

You blink, “Oh yeah? What gave it away? The license plate?"

"Shoot, you caught me lookin'." His smile broadens. "What're you doin' so far out?"

“I’m here for a wake,” you tell him, and whatever semblance of a smile he had immediately vanishes as he hunches over his beer.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not my aunt,” you nod towards the bathroom and for some reason, you have the sinking feeling to not tell him. Because something in the air feels a little magical now that you’re on your first-wine, first-beer high. Something feels _right_. But the other half is screaming: do the right thing. _Be the right person._ Have a little honor. “My boyfriend’s aunt, actually."

"Ah." He nods, slowly, as if understanding. "Well, my condolences stand."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

He pauses a moment before meeting your gaze with a tender look, “Well, don’t mind me then. I’ll get outta your hair.”

You smile, taking a little sip of beer.“You know what’s crazy?” It’s enough to make him stop, just as he’s about to hop off his seat. “I don’t know why but I really want to buy you a drink right now.”

He cocks his head to the side in that incorrigibly cute way that makes your heart want to melt, “I think that’s s’posed to be my line, sweetheart.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I said it first.” You flag down the bartender, pointing to his drink for a refill. “So? Beer's on me. Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Yeah, tell me your story."

“My story.” He rubs his chin. “Nothin’ particularly interestin’."

You frown, "I've literally never heard anyone so unenthusiastic about telling their own story." Then again, the only people you really know are inside the bubble of your city-life. Learning to talk about yourself is practically a rite of passage. You study him for a moment--his beard, and his hair, just beginning to gray. It's salt-and-peppered. “You got any kids?”

He pauses, “Just one. She's a real sweetheart.”

You smile. You believe it.

"What's her name?"

"Sarah," he says. “You like kids?”

“I do,” you tell him, lowering your gaze and fiddling with the coaster underneath your beer.

He senses something wrong almost immediately, “What is it?” It's almost telepathic, the way he's able to read you despite not even knowing your name.

“Nothing.” You decide not to get too intimate. “ _Not tryin’ to scare you off, sweetheart_.” You actually do a pretty spot-on imitation of his accent.

He smiles wryly, “Ain’t nothin’ you can say that’ll scare me.”

You consider it a moment, as if to size him up and see if he'll actually live up to that. “I want kids. My boyfriend doesn’t. That’s all.” And then you gulp down a large mouthful of beer, gazing out the window at your beat-up Range Rover, feeling the high of liquor that's simultaneously cheering you up and making you a little braver tonight. “Your turn.”

“Oof.” He rubs his chin, laughing. “Well, I’m divorced.”

You clink glasses with his, the mouth of your beer touching the mouth of his, “Looks like you win.”

"Trust me, I ain't winnin' anythin' any time soon." For some reason, he seems a bit more relaxed, as he comes to the same foregone conclusion as you. “And not that it matters, but I guess that makes it our first kiss.”

You blink, "How so?"

“Your glass touched mine. Practically indirect.”

You snort. “Are you six?”

The bathroom door opens. The fairy-tale comes to an end, inevitably. Your boyfriend's on the phone, probably talking to the tow truck guy, and he nods at the bartender to close up the tab. You down the remaining contents of your beer and look at Joel, who's coming to the same revelation as you are.

"It was really nice to meet you," you tell him, hopping off the chair and offering him a hand to shake. "Maybe we'll see each other again."

He looks a little disappointed, but puts on a smile of good faith before taking your hand and shaking it, "Yeah, maybe."

The truth is, you'll never know. He's just a stranger from a bar, you think, as you filter after your boyfriend towards the door, where he holds it open with one hand while he continues talking on the phone with the other. You realize it's cold outside, even in the thick of Austin heat.

You realize...

“I forgot something in the bar,” you tell him, as he sets off towards the tow truck waiting in the distance. You turn back around before he can get in a word edgewise, rip open the door, and find Joel closing up his tab at the bar. Somewhere behind you, the door clicks shut and you're taking a breath and letting it go, just like you're letting go of whatever reservations you have left.

He catches sight of you. He blinks.

"Back so soon already?"

“Yep. I, uh--I forgot something,” you tell him, and he actually believes you as you walk over, heels clicking against the sticky bar floor. You stop right before him, catching a breath you didn’t even know you were missing—

And then you lean up and kiss him.

It elicits a chorus of wolf-whistles from his friends in the booth, who just watch on as he kisses you back, lips parting—but you pull away before you can deepen it, even though every nerve inside you is screaming to keep kissing him. It’s the most chaste and untender and unholy kiss you’ve ever given someone, and—

Weirdly enough, you don’t feel bad about it.

Weirdly enough, you feel like this is exactly what you're supposed to do.

“Now that's better,” you say, smiling at him. “First kiss, right?”

And just like that, you turn towards the exit, looking at him one last time before turning around and leaving forever. He’ll never see you again, and you’ll never see him either, but you’ll think about each other from time and time—

And wonder if it’s possible to love someone you’ve never met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> star-crossed lovers or somethin like that :')
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) i am joel's wife :3


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